


my fears tell me I'll never win

by sebfish



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Philadelphia Flyers, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21947584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebfish/pseuds/sebfish
Summary: It would've been easier if Claude was only bonded to Danny, but things weren't ever that simple.
Relationships: Danny Briere/Claude Giroux, Sidney Crosby/Claude Giroux
Comments: 6
Kudos: 125
Collections: Hockey Holidays 2019





	my fears tell me I'll never win

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rawrimmapanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrimmapanda/gifts).



> Hi rawrimmapanda, I saw your prompt for Sid/Claude and that you like soul bonds and then saw that you like Claude/Danny and knew exactly what I was going to write, so I hope you like this. I'll be honest and say that this plot is way bigger than I ended up having time to write, so it's entirely likely that there will end up being more of this. 
> 
> This takes place around the 2010-2011 season but a lot has been handwaved. 
> 
> The title is from Cold Skin by Seven Lions, which I listened to extensively while writing this. 
> 
> This is a work of fiction and no harm is meant, if you know (or are) any of the people mentioned please go back for all our sakes.

Claude is young and stupid, with his missing tooth and unkempt ginger hair, and Danny wants him in a way that he hasn’t wanted anyone since he and Sylvie split. 

Or at least that's the gist of what Claude feels through the bond, the low simmering electricity between them that makes Claude feel like he's crawling out of his skin sometimes. He doesn’t know if Danny feels the same way or if it’s all him, a mess of teenage hormones and feedback from the bond. 

It's not supposed to be anything, just a bond for hockey. They’d both felt the potential the first time he’d met Danny, a tug of something right under his breastbone pulling him in, and it would’ve been stupid to not complete it. It'd be embarrassing if it was all Claude, tripping over his tongue and feeling like he's got to jerk off at least three times a day. 

Danny invites Claude to live with him because it’s the normal thing, billeting rookies, and it’s easy to tell himself that’s all it is and that it doesn’t have anything to do with the spark behind his chest when he looks at him. He doesn’t know if Danny can feel it too or if he knows what he’s feeling, if it's just Claude embarrassing himself or if he cares. 

“Those vegetables aren’t going to chop themselves,” Danny says mildly. They're in the kitchen and Danny had put him to work helping make dinner. 

Claude flushes and drops his eyes back to the cutting board, feeling caught out. He’s been staring at Danny again and feels like he keeps ending up doing it, the tug from the bond pulling him along helplessly.

It's be easier if he didn't have the bonding seared into his brain, the way Danny had looked at him like he wanted to eat him alive. The way he’d felt while Danny was inside him, and how hard he'd come when he felt the ends of the bond snap into place. 

You didn't have to fuck for bonds, necessarily, but when the potential was there it was the fastest way to shake everything into place.

He'd felt it the first time he'd met Danny, the thin end of the bond stretching towards him and pulling him in. It wasn't romantic, necessarily, but it was there and useful and there was no good reason for them to not do it. 

The fact that Claude couldn't talk to him without blushing and popping a boner was his own problem, probably. 

Claude doesn’t actually remember the first time he met Sidney Crosby. He feels like he should remember, that it should’ve been the kind of big moment that stuck out to him forever, when he’d seen him first and thought oh, there you are. 

But it didn’t, and all he has is the feeling that he's hated Crosby as long as he's known him, and the thin end of the bond pulling him towards Crosby that's stronger than anything he's every felt. Soulmates levels of strong, maybe, if it wasn't that Crosby's been fighting the bond as long as he's known him too. 

(It's a lie that he doesn't know, because he remembers the first time he saw Crosby. It's also a lie to say that he hates him, because Crosby may hate him but it's never run the other way. Maybe he's wished some times that it would've only ever been Danny, because that would’ve been less complicated, but there's a small vicious part of him that's glad to own him in a way no one else ever will, for all everyone wants to take a piece of him.) 

He’d been dumb enough to ask, once, when he was a dumb rookie who didn’t know any better.

“What do you want?” Crosby had stared him down, deeply suspicious.

“Look,” Claude had said. “I don’t know what your feelings on this are, but you have to know that we could bond.”

“I’m flattered,” He’d said in a tone that suggested that he wasn’t, “but I’m not interested in bonding with anyone right now.”

Letang had come out from the locker room then, giving him an unfriendly stare, and he’d made his excuses and walked back to the visitor’s room as quickly as he’d let himself.

Okay, it’s a lie too to say that he’d only asked the once, because that’s become a thing that they do, too. Claude waits for Crosby whenever they play each other, Crosby tells him he doesn’t want to bond, they move on with their lives.

Crosby’s the first one to break the script, of course, because he could never do anything right.

It’s after a game in December, at home, when Claude’s feeling pretty good because he’d scored a goal and they won and there was always an extra layer of viciousness to that whenever they play the Pens. It doesn’t hurt that he can vaguely feel Crosby in the building, a faint whisper that isn’t anywhere close to what it would be like if they finished the bond, but is comforting anyway.

He’s finishing getting dressed, halfway listening to Carts and Ritchie argue about something that he’s long since lost the thread about. It’s probably the same whatever they’ve been arguing about on and off for the past few days, and he’s not touching it.

“Claude?” 

Danny’s voice breaks him out of his reverie, and he snaps his eyes over to where Danny’s standing near the entrance, already in his suit with his wet hair brushed back out of his face.

Danny nods his head towards the door and Claude finishes buttoning his shirt as he follows him out.

Danny’s tone is neutral. “Someone’s waiting for you.”

There, just a little way down the hallways where anyone could see him, is Crosby, loitering awkwardly like this is something he does all the time. Where anyone could see him, Christ, as if he didn’t care.

Danny leaves him and Claude bites back the urge to ask him to stay.

Crosby’s already dressed after the game, hair curling damply. He probably had media to deal with, but must’ve rushed out as soon as he could to get here before Claude was ready. Claude kind of wants to get his hands all over Crosby, but that’s nothing new.

“Hey,” Crosby jerks his chin up in a nod. “Figured I wouldn’t make you wait this time.”

Claude snorts, feeling awkward. “Is this something we do now? I thought this was my thing, to ask if you want to bond yet.”

Crosby goes enticingly pink. “I’m not ready to bond yet, but I thought, maybe we could talk? We’re leaving soon so I don’t have time tonight, but if you want.”

It takes Claude a second to realize that Crosby’s holding out his phone, still pink but determined like he’s on a face off. “What, you want my number?”

“I thought it would be easier,” Crosby says, slightly stubborn.

Claude sighs and takes the phone, already open to a new contact. He puts his number in and hands it back to Crosby.

“Okay,” Crosby says, pressing buttons. He closes his phone and puts it in his pocket, then looks back at Claude like he’s not sure what to do next. “Uh, I’ve got to go, but I’ll text you?”

“Okay,” Claude says, then rolls his eyes when Crosby keeps hesitating like he’s waiting for something. He steps forward and pulls him into a quick hug.

“I’ll see you then, eh Crosby?”

“It’s Sid,” Crosby says, but he hugs back for a moment before stepping away. “And yeah, I’ll see you.”

Danny doesn’t ask when he gets back, just gives him a look like he knows something’s up but isn’t going to press.

Claude lasts all of a week before he caves. He knows Danny can tell that something is up, but he’s nice enough to not say anything even though he can feel the faint wash of curiosity through the bond whenever he’s been dwelling on it too long.

He waits until Danny’s in the den, watching the news like the old man he already is while the boys are all off doing homework or whatever else. He perches nervously on the edge of the couch, picking at the edge of the ugly plaid while Danny pretends that he’s not watching him out of the corner of his eye. He’d be better at it if Claude couldn’t feel the thin thread of concern for him, which warms him enough to speak.

“I’ve got a bond with Crosby,” he says, staring resolutely at the TV. He feels the faint flicker of surprise from Danny, even though he quickly smooths over his expression. “We haven’t completed it yet.”

Danny huffs out a laugh. Claude half expects him to turn the TV off, but he leaves it on because he’s always better at these things than Claude is. “I have to say, that’s not what I would’ve guessed. Are you planning on completing it?”

Claude snorts. “He says he doesn’t want to bond with anyone yet, but last time he asked for my phone number and told me to call him Sid.” He’s not sure how much Danny catches from his end of the bond, but his expression softens into something Claude doesn’t want to look at too closely.

“Oh Claude,” Danny says, sympathetic, and he doesn’t know what Danny’s reading off of him but it doesn’t matter because Danny’s reaching out and hauling him in for a hug, pulling him tight against his chest. He lets himself collapse against Danny, focuses on the feeling of the soft, worn sweatshirt under his cheek and the smell of him, warm and familiar.

He lets Danny manoeuver them both until he’s basically being cuddled on the couch, and it’s not anything Danny usually does but Claude’s grateful for it all the same.

“He’ll come around,” Danny murmurs, and Claude presses his face into Danny’s shoulder and doesn’t answer.

He tries to put it out of his mind, just focusing on hockey. It feels almost effortless sometimes, playing with Danny, to know where he’s going to be almost before he’s there.

Sid (it’s Sid now, which is weird to wrap his mind around) texts him as promised, and it’s not really anything but it warms him anyway. He chats about workouts and what he’s eating and complains about roadies and it’s all very normal and nothing he would’ve expected.

Publicly, he still hates Claude and Flyers, and that's almost comforting in how normal it feels. 

They’re winning more than they’re losing, and it’s not bad at all.

They play the Penguins again, and lose in the shootout, and it’s frustrating but not terrible. He catches a few minutes to talk to Sid after the game and it’s weird, but it’s better.

A week later they play them again in Pittsburgh, and they win this time, and it’s gratifying.

Sid says “c’mon” this time, and gestures him to follow, and they end up in an empty hallway a little ways away from everything.

“I wanted to talk,” Sid says, “since we’ll be hitting the playoffs soon and I don’t know when we’ll have the chance to again.”

He slides down the wall to sit on the floor, and Claude follows, almost close enough to touch.

“I just,” Sid says, so softly that Claude almost doesn’t hear it, “with the whole bonding thing, it's not that I don’t want to bond because I hate you.” He’s not looking at Claude, picking at the edge of the paper on his water bottle. “It’s the whole,” he gestures with his water bottle, indicating who the fuck knows, ending with a shrug.

“Yeah,” Claude says.

“It’s not that I don’t want to bond with you, but you know,” Sid’s mouth is curled down, and somehow Claude is starting to get the gist of what he’s saying. Maybe it’s because of the almost bond between them, maybe they’ve just been spending too much time together.

“One of us would have to move,” Claude says, breath leaving him all at once as it hits him. “And it’d be me.”

“I mean,” Sid says, finally looking up at him with a wry twist to his mouth, “I could come to Philly but I don’t know if my team would let me leave.”

Claude snorts and scoots a little closer, bumps a shoulder against Sid’s. Sid leans into the contact like he’s been waiting for it. “I could, if I had to.”

“But you’d hate me for it.”  
  
Claude shrugs in response, because he doesn’t really have any better answers. He’d like to say he’s better than that, but he’s not.

There’s quiet, for a while, but it’s not the bad sort of quiet.

“Maybe in a few years,” Sid says. “If we did it at the beginning of summer, that should be enough to get it stabilized.”

“Okay,” Claude breathes out, and when Sid’s hand touches his, tentatively, he reaches back and tangles their fingers together.


End file.
